I'll Be Home for Christmas
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Two roads running parallel, never meeting, except possibly this time they might. Written for the 2018 Down the Chimney challenge


Napoleon Solo flipped on the light in the entry way and stepped inside to quickly cancel the alarm. The penthouse stood quiet and still, like a grave. It reflected the way he felt at the moment. This was supposed to be the happiest time of the year and yet he felt stone cold inside.

He dropped the briefcase he carried, a piece of the part he played as a successful businessman. The truth was that the only thing Napoleon was good at was running away. He ran away from responsibility, he ran from himself and he ran from love.

He sighed, took off his raincoat and hung it up, letting the rain drip onto the tile floor. His housekeeper had left the mail on the entry hall table as was her routine and Napoleon flipped through the stack of envelopes. There were a few cards, but most of them were bills and advertisements. He'd take care of those later. As far as he knew, there was nothing pending. That would come next month as he faced his credit card bill.

There were times when he felt like he wined and dined half of Manhattan, all in an attempt to kick start his cold remains of a heart. A woman had played him once, well, twice actually, but it was the same woman, so he wasn't sure that counted. It wasn't going to happen again, at least not to Napoleon.

This time of the year, all his female friends started looking at him with this eerily similar expression, sort of doe-eyed and hopeful. There would be invitations to come to this party or that with, the one phrase all bachelors dreaded, "I want you to meet my parents."

Napoleon tried to avoid all those situations. It took him too long and cost him too dearly to wiggle free of the woman's expectations of him. When would someone see him as he truly was?

He smiled at that and trudged into his bedroom. The curtains were still open and before them spread the cityscape. The rain made everything blurry, but Napoleon preferred his reality a bit out of focus. Reality was too hard and, well, too real.

Napoleon went to his closet and found his favorite sweater. It was a gift from his Aunt Amy and would be perfect for tonight. The color was a seasonal red and it was soft and comfortable. He took off his jacket, holster, and tie, taking not to break, arm, or discharge anything. He pushed up his sleeves, the cuffs had long since lost their elasticity, and toed off his shoes, wiggling and flexing his feet in pure bliss.

Today had been one of those endless days at work. Too much paperwork and far too many blanks to be filled in. He felt as if he'd been over every inch of HQ twice today, chasing paper in an attempt to get all his end of year reports in. The harder he tried, the more he felt he was running on ice, losing ground with every step.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Illya had been around. However, the Russian's desk stood bare and empty all day. Napoleon knew Illya was in the building because he had tried piling some of his work on it, but it all managed to find its way back to his in box. There just wasn't any justice some days.

At least he was comfortable now. He headed for the living room, detouring back to the hallway to drop a towel down to soak up the rain and to retrieve the briefcase. A stop at his wet bar and two fingers of scotch over the rocks was added to his journey. He paused to turn on the lights that decorated the Christmas tree. Aunt Amy had brought it last week and insisted they decorate it together. If it wasn't for that, there would be no sign of the holiday here.

He set the drink down, remembering to use a coaster, just as he was taught and reached for the fireplace remote. This thing fascinated him. One click of a button and the fireplace came to life.

"Boy, I could have used one of these last week," he said loud. Only silence answered him. He turned on the radio to his favorite classical station and took a seat. None of his furniture was overly comfortable except for one armchair. It was his favorite and he swore he'd never let it go. He sank into it and stared into the flames as if they could counsel him.

The first file was routine. He just needed to sign it. The next one was from Illya was requesting additional range time in order to test some new weapons. It was simply paperwork for the sake of it, as far as Napoleon was concerned. The weapons would be released when he gave them the rubber stamp and he wouldn't be happy until Illya was happy.

Napoleon paused at that thought. It was true. The only time he seemed happy these days was when Illya was around. There were times when the man was an irritant, a know-it-all and a bit of a thorn in his side, but Napoleon wouldn't have him any other way. He smiled at the thought and felt a ball of warmth in his stomach, but surely that was from the scotch.

Sanctuary. That's how Illya regarded his apartment. It didn't matter to him that it didn't have a fashionable address or even a boatload of amenities. It was his and his alone. He didn't have to share with family members, fellow students, friends, or even pseudo friends. His apartment was freedom. Within its walls, he could do what he wanted, when and with whom he so desired.

Illya stepped around the various toys, boxes and trash that littered the hallway. There were some days when it resembled a mine field more than a corridor. Still, he was practiced at picking his way through it.

He came to his door and sighed. Unlocking it meant that he could let his guard down and for the first time since leaving it, he could relax. Except for some reason, tonight that ball of steel inside him stayed wrapped tight. This was home, his safe haven and yet it seemed as welcoming as a prison cell. He shook the thought from his head, stepped into the dark, and hurriedly keyed off the alarm. The last thing he wanted was a band of Section Threes descending upon him. Not tonight. He just wasn't in the mood. He flipped on a light and took off his raincoat, hanging it upon a coatrack that had seen better days. It was still coming down in buckets outside. He suspected that anyone hoping for a white Christmas was going to be disappointed.

Illya never quite got the fascination with having snow on that one particular morning, but what did he know? He didn't exactly grow up in a culture that sang praises to consumerism and commercialism like they did here. There were a couple of cards that his neighbors had given him and some from his coworkers, but they were the only hint that it was what some called the happiest time of the year.

He set his briefcase on the tiny table that acted as one of the few pieces of his furniture and stretched. It didn't take long for him to strip away the costume he hid behind in the name of UNCLE and slip into more comfortable and familiar sweats. This was one part of American living that he had embraced. Leisure wear was not a bad thing.

Next he checked out his refrigerator. He'd been in town for a week now, so it was still stocked with various brown sacks and take out containers. He didn't cook if he could avoid it. He turned on his tiny oven and picked through the leftovers until he had a suitable amount of food collected in the pan. He slid it inside, set the timer, and then left it to warm.

The curtain was open, but the view was that of the neighboring brownstone. He closed it out of practice as a precaution, then found his favorite jazz station and settled down on his couch with his briefcase. One side of the handgrip was holding on by sheer will and he made a note to himself to repair it tomorrow at work.

The thought held no attraction for him. The end-of-year reports were always a bear and this year he felt as if he was drowning in them. He never seemed to get anywhere, despite the knowledge that he was clearing stuff off his desk in record speed. Even Napoleon was making more head way than he was. He felt frustrated and just a little annoyed.

There was a half empty bottle of whiskey on the table from the night before and he helped himself to it, using the glass that still stood nearby. Washing the glass seemed pointless as there wasn't like anything was going to grow in it. He waited for the alcohol to do its work, but even it seemed to be taking a vacation day along with everyone else.

He pulled off his shoes without untying them and massaged the arch of one foot. No matter how comfortable the shoe, after the sixth or seventh time he'd scoured the building looking for one employee or another, his feet just ached. Funny, he could do a 25 mile hike with Napoleon and think nothing of it. He smiled at the memory of their last such 'outing' – successfully catching some fish and roasting them over a small fire and feeling more alive than he did sitting last night with his date. She was going on about some fashion trend started by an actress he knew nothing about.

The timer binged and Illya retrieved his food. Once tasty, now it was just food and he ate because that's what he thought he needed. A full stomach and he'd be fine. He'd be able to relax enough to sleep only to resume his paper chasing tomorrow. Illya sighed and began to read as he ate.

On top was a note from Napoleon.

 _Illya – what's your opinion of Agent Benjamin? He tested fine, but I have a feeling…_

Illya didn't need to read anymore. He had long ago learned to trust Napoleon's instincts, even over his own. If Napoleon had reservations, so would he. He scanned through the first couple of pages, frowning at the various answers to the scenarios. They were acceptable, but a bit off. Perhaps he and Napoleon should have a one-on-one meeting with him.

He reached for his communicator and uncapped it. "Open Channel D. Napoleon, are you there?"

"You have no idea how there I am," his partner answered back and Illya felt the stress at the back of his neck ease a little. Finally, the alcohol seemed to be kicking in.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I know how busy your social calendar is these days."

"Nope, just sitting here watching the rain and celebrating the fact that I avoided the state of impending matrimony for another year."

"I've heard good things about it." Illya grinned at the thought and the tension in Illya's shoulders slipped away like a sigh.

"Not from where I'm standing. What's going on?"

"I was reading Benjamin's file and I think you are right."

"Eager, intelligent, but there's just something a little off with someone who thinks explosives is the only answer."

"Hey!" Illya tried to sound offended, but he was smiling too much.

"Present company excluded, of course."

"What would you like to do? A one-on-one?"

"That's a good start. Maybe send him on a mock trial, without him knowing it, of course. That's worked on more than one agent."

"Remember Mandy Stevenson?"

"The weather girl? She turned out to be a fairly solid agent until the Matrimony Fairy found her."

"When's her baby due?"

"February. I think I'm getting old."

"Isn't that the goal of all Section Two agents?" Illya took another swallow of whiskey. "We both anticipate and dread that fate."

"Yeah, but it used to be I longed for a nice solid relationship that would be my reward for making it to forty. Certainly, the work wouldn't be as interesting, but knowing that there was a family waiting for me would make up for it. Now, just the thought of some rose-covered cottage for two sends me into despair."

"Perhaps you just have met the right person yet."

"What if I don't? My record isn't exactly exemplary. Two strikes."

"And the third time is likely to be the charm." Illya grinned at Napoleon's snort. "You're in a mood tonight. You need company?"

"Would you mind? It's a miserable night out."

"Sounds like it's a miserable night in. Give me ten, maybe fifteen. Do you want me to pick something up?"

There was a brightness in Napoleon's voice that was missing before. "No, I'll cook, but you could bring something to drink."

"I know just the thing. Kuryakin out."

He gathered up the remains of his lackluster dinner and dumped it into the trash. Taking one more swallow of whiskey, he put on his shoes, stuffed the paperwork back into the briefcase and headed for the door. Only then did he realize that his stress and pain had vanished. Surely, it must be because of the adrenaline. What else could it be?

Napoleon was softly whistling to himself as he gave the marinara a stir. He hadn't grown up in Italy, but his parents made sure he knew his roots, all of them. He cooked with his grandmother, tended the vegetable garden with his grandfather, and learned of life from both of them. Certainly, his parents also had life lessons for him, but it was those early ones Napoleon treasured.

The table just needed to be set and that would be it. He checked the pasta water and turned down the heat. He wouldn't cook it until Illya arrived.

As if knowing his thoughts, as Illya often did, there came a sharp rap on the front door. Making sure everything was safe, Napoleon half sprinted to answer it.

Illya glanced down at Napoleon's sweater and grinned. "You didn't need to dress for me."

Napoleon waggled a finger at his partner. "That should be my line."

"Oh, this? I just threw it on. At least that's what my date told me last night after I complimented her outfit."

"You're learning. And was it?"

"Thrown on? No. Painted on, yes. At least she wasn't expensive as dates go, but she spent a lot of time in the restroom."

"Probably trying not to faint." Napoleon took Illya's coat and hung it as Illya set his case down. "Planning on spending the night?"

Illya's look was enigmatic. "If you play your cards right. No, it's paperwork."

"You got stuff out of HQ?"

"It's easy if you know how." Illya inhaled. "What smells good?"

"Oh, just spaghetti and meatballs."

Illya handed him a bottle of wine. "Was I right about chianti?"

"Yes, this is a good one. Thanks. Come on in and take the load off."

Illya wandered into the living room and regarded the sling-back chairs. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." He picked the couch instead.

"What?"

"Who furnished your apartment?"

"A woman I was dating at the time. The only reason I keep the stuff is that I paid a fortune for it. When she discovered I had no real money, she dropped me like a stone and charged me for the design." He gestured. "The den is far more comfortable."

Napoleon chuckled at Illya's delight. He never been in there before.

He set the table and opened the wine. He poured two glasses and carried them along with the bottle into the den. Illya, as Napoleon suspected, was studying the room. This was a private area that Napoleon didn't share.

"This is you?" Illya indicated a photo of three people, two men and boy, each holding a fish and posing for the camera. The boy's fish was nearly as large as he was.

"My father, uncle and me. It was the first and last time they took me bass fishing." He handed Illya a glass.

"Why's that?"

"My uncle had been trying to catch that fish for years and I caught it first time out. Then I made the mistake of letting it go. He wanted it stuffed and hung on the wall. I thought it deserved its freedom. He never caught it and he carried a grudge against me for years because of it."

"Wow, over a fish."

"Well, I think there was a lot of other things, but at the time, I didn't understand. He died just before I shipped out."

"Illness?" Napoleon refilled their empty glasses.

"Got drunk and decided to take a nap in a pile of trash by the side of the road."

Illya shuddered. "I lost a couple of relatives that way, too. It's actually a real problem back home." He held the glass to the ceiling in a salute. Napoleon followed suit and they drank.

"Is it?"

"Is what?"

"Is the USSR still home?"

Illya smiled and dropped his gaze to his empty wine glass. "Permission to speak freely?"

Napoleon nodded, slightly confused by the question. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I always prefer honesty and from you, I practically demand it."

"No, the USSR is not home, nor is the United States. The longer I am with UNCLE, the more I come to realize I have no home, not anymore, except possibly for you."

The admission took Napoleon by surprise and Illya suddenly looked very uncomfortable with his admission. " _In vino veritas,_ "he murmured. "Apparently not just a pretty phrase."

" _In aqua sanitas,_ " Napoleon finished as he emptied the bottle. "I better get the pasta on if we are ever going to get to that paperwork."

Illya nodded and Napoleon left, his head spinning with Illya's confession. Or was it really? It dawned upon Napoleon that, while the wine might have encouraged Illya, he felt the same way. He remembered how Illya's call had shaken him from his gloom. Suddenly, he had untapped energy and the anticipation with which he used to meet his dates. He'd busied himself turning on lights, turning up the music and even taking a turn at a few dance steps on his way to the kitchen.

 _What was that all about?_

For what it was worth, the same thought was bouncing around Illya's head. _Had he just opened himself up to his partner?_ At least Napoleon hadn't immediately punched him or tossed him out. If anything, Napoleon looked… Illya paused, Napoleon looked relieved. Was it possible that Napoleon felt the same?

Illya looked down at his glass. The genie was out of the bottle and the bottle was sadly empty.

"Hey, Illya." Napoleon brought him from his thoughts. "Dinner is ready."

"Thanks."

Illya followed him from the den to the dining room and sat where Napoleon indicated. Dinner was a simple salad followed by spaghetti and meatballs. It was superior to anything he'd eaten as of late and he dug in with enthusiasm.

"This is great, Napoleon."

"My grandmother used to babysit me a lot. Most of that time was spent in the kitchen." Napoleon passed him some bread. "Probably the best thing she could have done was teach me to find my way around a kitchen. I've always been surprised that you don't cook, Illya, considering your passion for food."

"Well, certainly I can, but I prefer the more active role of eating." He cut a meatball in quarters and tasted one. "What did you make these with?"

"Ricotta cheese." Napoleon refilled the wine glasses. "We're doing a good job tap dancing around the subject, aren't we?"

"Yes. I won't pursue it any further if you would prefer not."

"I'm just intrigued and would like a bit more information. Why am I your home?"

Illya sighed and hid for a moment behind his napkin as he wiped his mouth. "It's hard to explain. A home, to me, is somewhere you can seek refuge any time day or night and know you will be welcomed. It is safe and you will not be judged or ridiculed for your shortcomings."

"Or at least not too much," Napoleon interrupted with a smile.

"There is good-humored joking and there is ridicule. They are two very different animals. I go out with women and their conversations, for the most part, seem sadly limited. I mentioned Dag Hjalmar Agne Carl Hammarskjold to my date last night and she wanted to know what sort of perfume he sold."

"You're joking. I know it's been a few years since his death"

"Sadly, no. When I mentioned he'd won a Nobel for his work with the UN, she was immediately uninterested and began to talk about some actress. When I referred back to it and the fact that Martin Luther King had just been awarded one, she dismissed him as one of those radical southern types." Illya studied the backs of his hands. "I want to have meaningful conversation at times, yet the only women seeming willing to date me are not exactly world scholars. They are the ones who are know better than to get involved with someone with the life expectancy of a fruit fly."

"Oh, gnat that." Napoleon grinned and pushed the marinara closer to Illya.

Illya just shook his head, but there was a smile drifting across his lips. "Only you, Napoleon."

"For what it's worth, it's not just you. I'm finding myself in the same situation. I date, I go through the motions, but it never gets here." He tapped his chest. "It's all just for show now. The only time I seem to come alive is at work and that's because you're there."

"We're certainly a pair."

Napoleon reached across the table and placed his hand on Illya's, his gaze never leaving Illya's face. "We could be."

"What are you suggesting, Napoleon?" Illya studied that hand. He knew it was well as his own, coming to rely upon its strength, comfort, and guidance in just about any circumstance.

"I think you know what I'm suggesting, Illya."

"I don't know what Mr. Waverly's reaction would be to us suddenly taking that step, nor anyone else's."

"Does it matter?"

"I think it matters very much. If he ships me home because of it and they ask why, I could be facing a firing squad. Homosexuality is a crime punishable by death in the USSR. It's not exactly the end to a brilliant career that I am anticipating."

"Then if we have to, we'll quit UNCLE and go someplace where it isn't. I'm not suggesting that we move in together and start picking out a china pattern, Illya. I'm suggesting that perhaps the best thing in our lives has been looking at us square in the face and we've never realized it.

"What do we do?"

"I think we take it as it comes. I'm attracted to you and you, me., but I have no intention of throwing you over my shoulder and hauling you into the bedroom… unless, of course, that's what you are into."

"Not as a rule." Illya smirked at the thought. "Not that you could throw me over your shoulder without my consent."

"Could be fun finding out, though." Napoleon returned his attention to his plate. "Nothing might happen, but if we don't try, we're going to be two parallel roads, never intersecting. We owe it to ourselves."

"And if it costs us our partnership?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Deal?" Napoleon held up his glass.

"Deal." They touched glasses. "So about Benjamin-"

Napoleon half listened to Illya, taking just a moment to revel in the realization that he'd just approached someone, suggested a future together and been accepted without conditions, arguments, or angst. He smiled and then he looked at Illya, who was studying him.

"Is something wrong?" Napoleon dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

"Just a little drool. Were you mentally undressing me?"

"The opposite, in fact. It's the fact that I don't have to that gives a whole new meaning to rocking around the Christmas tree."

"Am I going to get any work out of you tonight?"

"God, I hope not."

Outside, the temperatures dropped and the rain turned to snow. Inside, hearts warmed and ice melted.


End file.
